


Darker Days (Brighter Lights)

by MissjuliaMiriam



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Caretaking, Comfort Sex, Cuddles, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most days are bad days without lyrium to heat his blood. Some are worse. She makes them better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darker Days (Brighter Lights)

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY DISCLAIMER: I HAVEN'T ACTUALLY PLAYED DRAGON AGE. ANY OF THEM. AT ALL. I've watched most of Cullen's cutscenes, and I've read a lot of fanfiction, and I have some second-hand experience with actual addicts. I just wanted to explore Cullen's addiction and withdrawal in a different way than some people seem to- the fandom doesn't always take it seriously enough, in my view. 
> 
> I fully expect that this is not the worst of Cullen's bad days. It probably gets worse than this. Some days are probably better. I'll write more about this, if I'm honest with myself- it's an interesting topic.
> 
> Anyway, yeah, moderately fluffy, mildly smutty, self-indulgent Cullen/F!Inqui. (Very non-descript Inquisitor for your reading pleasure.)

 

"Commander?"

Cullen looks up. There's a runner at his office door, looking at him nervously. Right to do so, maybe, probably- he knows how he looks. Tense, tired, wound tightly and aching down to his bones. It's rare that the pain shows, but today is worse than usual. There's a wooden box in his desk drawer that could make it stop, whispers an insidious voice in his head, and Cullen startles when the runner clears his throat and says, "The Inquisitor wants to see you."

"Oh," Cullen says. He straightens, pushing away from the wall. Looking out the window, staring at the sky like the blue held answers that really, he already has. "I'll be right along." As an afterthought, he adds, "Thank you."

The boy bows and scurries out. Cullen sighs. Today is bad, not that many days are good, but most are bearable. On the bad days people look at him strangely, like they're remembering that he's ill, and he envies their ability to forget. He hides it too well, maybe. They don't know that this is not just a come-and-go illness, it is a constant sickness that lurks under his skin, waiting for the vulnerable moments to dig in its teeth and tear at him until he pulls that box from the drawer and sets it on the desk. There was a Templar he knew once who was a drunkard and wanted to be sober; he would keep away from the bottle for days, weeks, and then he'd have a drink. He called it "falling off the wagon". Cullen hasn't fallen off the wagon yet, but that Templar had talked about it like most people talked about death, as if it were utterly inevitable. Some days, it seems like he should just give in. He's doomed to fail.

The Inquisitor is waiting, Cullen reminds himself. He walks. Slowly, methodical steps, filled with the sound of fur and fabric shushing, the clinking of his armour; it grates on him. He looks at his desk, thinks, _She can wait_. Then he shakes his head and walks out the door, and the thump it makes as he closes it behind him sounds like a sigh of relief. A barrier makes things easier. That's what the drawer is for. He keeps it locked. The key is in a hollow book, third shelf from the top, blue cover. Easily in reach. Cullen shakes his head.

He can go to the War Room without thinking, he knows the route so well, and so he turns off his brain and lets his feet take him, trying to shut out the concerned looks he gets from the soldiers he passes. They know him, by now they know what a bad day looks like. He wonders if any of them will go to Cassandra. To anyone. No, there's no help coming, and at least the Inquisitor is waiting, her sweet face turning to him when he steps into the war room. She looks pleased for a split second, then business-like, and then worried.

"Cullen," she says. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't have-"

"No," he says. Cuts her off, winces. "Sorry. Best to be busy on these days though, I'm sure you understand." He tries to smile, but her concern doesn't fade.

"You should be resting. You look exhausted."

He shakes his head. "I'm alright," he says, tries to make it convincing. Probably fails. "You needed me for something."

"Nothing more urgent than your health," she says, and steps around the table to cup his face in her palms. Her skin is dry and smooth against the stubble on his jaw; he's never asked if the roughness bothers her. He is unpolished.

"Surely not," he murmurs, but bends to meet her lips anyway. She's so gentle with him, so slow, just a soft caress of mouths meeting, breath mingling, and he wishes he could hold onto this moment forever. This one and all of the ones like it. She has given him so much. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," she says. "Come on. Let's get you out of that armour and into bed."

His shoulders tighten a little, and she softens. "My bed," she says. "Not yours. I know you torture yourself with that box; take a day off, love."

He sighs. Barriers, he thinks. His armour is one. A layer of formality, of strict control and routine. It's good for him. Stripping it away can be hard, but with her, in her space, it is easier to be soft. Linen shirts and skin, her hands on his shoulders, his lips against her jaw. If he were less of everything he is, he would let himself have that more. He feels guilt for denying it to her, but not enough that he can let himself lapse too much. Control. Command.

"Okay," he tells her, and lets her lead him through Skyhold once more. The path to her rooms are familiar as well, and he can follow her without worrying that she will lead him astray. It's been years since he trusted like this. Maybe he never has. "I love you," he says. She smiles at him over her shoulder, and tugs him through the door.

Her fingers are deft on the buckles of his breastplate, his pauldrons, his vambraces. She slides his mantle off his shoulders, letting the brilliant crimson of his cloak pool on the floor around them like blood. He can't look at it, only steps over it when she leads him. He sits on the edge of the bed and lets her pull his shirt off, accepts the kiss she gives him. He's so tired, now that she's given him permission to be.

"I'm going to run off for a minute," she says. "I'll be right back. Lie down."

He obeys, lying on the bed to wait for her. He tried not to curl up, tries not to wrap his fingers so tightly into his hair that it hurts, tries not to hear the voices that reminds him that it would not be so hard to break into the lyrium stores and _take it_. He fails. He fails. _He fails._

She comes back and he is shivering on the bed, lost in a half-waking dream. The misery in the curl of his spine makes her ache, and she settles as gently as possible next to him and slides her hand down his back, then coaxes his hands out of his hair and around her waist instead. It's not easy to drag the blankets from beneath his solid bulk and hers, but she manages, and cocoons them together in the warmth until he sleeps, and eventually she sleeps too. Damn their responsibilities.

When Cullen wakes he feels better, at he's sure that the vast majority of that is because of the curl of soft warmth pressed against him, half across his chest. He knows what she feels like now, knows her exact warmth and the exact texture of her skin; she is a benison and the purest thing he knows. "I love you," he says. He feels her smile stretch against his skin.

"I love you too," she replies. Her voice is sleep-husky.

He opens his eyes to darkness. "How long did we sleep?"

"Not long," she says. "We missed dinner, but not much else I suspect."

"I'm sorry," he says, but she just shakes her head.

"Never apologize for the bad days. I love you. I'm always happy to help."

"I know." He does. It's hard to accept sometimes, especially in the throes of his worst symptoms, but he does know. He tilts his head down to kiss her, even though his mouth and hers both taste like sleep. It doesn't bother him, and the kiss lingers, long and languid. It never becomes quite what he would call heated, but she rocks his hips against his thigh and he takes the hint, slipping his hand down her back until he can drag up the nightdress she must have changed into and push down her smalls. She's slick and warm, and it's easy as breathing for her open the ties of his breeches, shift herself, and slide into place. They move together, slow, easy, comforting. Not frantic or hot or desperate like they can be at times; this is barely about pleasure, and more about presence. They take their time, riding the slow wave of their joining. He whispers a thousand promises into her skin, moans brokenly, and gives himself over. She follows him, tight, hot, gasping into his ear.

"I love you," he says, for the thousandth time. Not the last time, either; he will tell her every day for the rest of their lives, if he has his way.

"Cullen," she says, and traces the lines of his face. Laughter and pain both, carved into his skin a little deeper every day. Her heart is at the tips of her fingers; in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos always welcome, comments moreso.


End file.
